by Nancy Martin
Joe opened the refrigerator and took out a quart of chocolate milk. For some reason, he wanted to enjoy the taste of Rose Atkins’s hot cocoa all over again—and cold chocolate milk would have to do. He poured the last three inches into a jelly glass decorated with cartoon characters and listened to Gina’s conversation with her grandfather in Brooklyn.
He was glad Marie’s parents kept in touch with their granddaughter, despite the miles that separated them. Every summer, Gina traveled east to be with her grandparents, and Joe tried to invite Marie’s family as well as his own mother to visit as often as possible. Gina needed an extended family to keep her grounded, he felt.
Gina sighed dramatically. “Yeah, okay, Gramps. I love you, too. I gotta go, all right? Give my love to Nana. Bye.”
Without moving from the floor, she tossed the receiver to Joe, who hung it up. “Holy smoke,” she groaned, covering her face with her hands as if holding back tremendous suffering. “When are they going to realize I’m not going to be just like Mom was? Now it’s cheerleading!”
Joe grinned, leaning against the counter to drink his milk. “Your mom looked good in that short skirt. It didn’t demean her as far as I could see.”
“What do you know?” Gina asked witheringly. “You’re a guy. A little old, maybe, but still a guy.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Oh, Dad, you know what I mean.”
“Sure. What’s for dinner?”
Gina blinked up at him from the floor. Sometimes she showed signs of her mother’s innate ability to play dumb when the situation warranted. She said, “I thought it was your night to cook. Weren’t you going to bring home a pizza?”
Joe blanched. “I hate pizza.”
“I never knew an Italian guy who hated normal Italian food the way you do,” she groused. “Can’t you like anything that’s easy to make?”
“You were going to fix omelets tonight,” Joe shot back. “Those are easy.”
“We’re out of eggs.”
“Open a can of soup, then.”
Gina sat up, objecting. “Dad, I need a high-carbohydrate meal tonight! We’re playing a big scrimmage game tomorrow against Bonneville!”
The basketball team, Joe remembered. He had trouble keeping up with Gina’s athletic endeavors sometimes. “Okay, okay, I’ll make the ultimate sacrifice tonight. How about macaroni and cheese?”
“Great,” she said with satisfaction, climbing to her feet and clearly believing she had manipulated her father into preparing their dinner. Joe knew his daughter hated cooking, but he was determined to see that she was competent in the kitchen at the very least. She said, “I’ll keep you company while you make it. Where have you been, anyway? I expected you home half an hour ago.”
Joe thought of Susannah Atkins at once. He turned around and put his empty glass in the sink, trying to keep his expression hidden from Gina in case it revealed his thoughts.
Keeping a casual tone, he said, “I met a celebrity today.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Susannah Atkins. Of ‘Oh, Susannah!”’
Joe felt Gina glance at him. She said, “Is she pretty?”
“Very pretty.”
“Prettier than Mom was?”
“Different pretty,” Joe admitted, walking a fine line, he knew. “She’s very nice.”
“How nice?”
“Just nice. You’d like her, I think.”
“I doubt it,” Gina said bluntly, hitching her behind onto one of the stools at the counter and dismissing the subject of Susannah Atkins. “But I like old Mrs. Atkins just fine.” She splayed her elbows on a place mat and watched Joe wash his hands and dry them on the nearest towel.
“Me, too. I’m going to fix up her house a little.”
“Why? So you can be close to the television lady?”
“No,” Joe said shortly, “because her house needs fixing, that’s all. The television lady is leaving Tyler tomorrow.” Joe took a box of pasta from the pantry shelf and dug a block of cheddar cheese from the refrigerator. He said, “Maybe you’d come along and visit with Mrs. Atkins while I’m working there. She’d enjoy the company.”
Gina shrugged. “Sure.”
“Maybe,” Joe ventured cautiously, “she could help you pick out a dress for the Christmas dance. Unless you already have a dress, that is.”
Gina’s dark brown eyes flew open in surprise, and the teenager sat up as if she’d been jabbed with a hot poker. For an instant, she could not find her voice, then she blurted out, “How do you know about the dance?”
“How could I not know about it? Every ninth grader in town is talking about the big Tinsel Ball. Your friend Marcy cornered me in the drugstore to ask what color your dress was.”
“That nosy fink!”
“What color is it?”
“What?” Gina pretended complete bafflement.
“Your dress for the Tinsel Ball,” Joe said patiently. “Marcy said you told her it was the...let’s see, what word did she use, exactly? Slinky, that’s it. The slinkiest dress in Madison. I didn’t know you’d gone to Madison to buy a dress.”
Hastily, Gina said, “You must have misunderstood, Dad. You know how fast Marcy talks. She must have said her dress was slinky—”
Joe set his ingredients on the counter and glowered at his daughter, ready to confront her with the truth. “Don’t try to snow me, Gina. I know what Marcy said. Have you been lying again?”
Gina thrust out her lower lip and looked sulky, her automatic reaction to any accusation. She refused to meet her father’s gaze, but said bravely, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joe considered his options. There was no denying that Gina’s biggest problem was stretching the truth. She could tell a whopper without blinking an eye and had been caught so often that Joe sometimes wondered how many times she’d actually gotten away with lying. The possibilities boggled his mind sometimes. Her teachers complained every year, but the problem had finally become such a daily event that lately they’d started pushing Joe to seek help from professionals.
The school psychologist had suggested that Gina was lying because she missed her mother. Joe had a hard time making the connection, because Marie had never told a fib in her life, but Gina seemed to do it just because it was more fun than telling the truth. If her lying was a bid to get more attention, it seemed to him that there were easier ways of doing that. He felt unable to understand or stop the situation. The psychologist hadn’t been a hell of a lot of help and had encouraged Joe to find a therapist for family counseling.
Family counseling sounded like a lot of hogwash to him. He could handle the problem himself.
But he hated confrontations with his daughter and was experimenting with ways of handling the various troubles of adolescence without resorting to yelling at Gina. She only yelled back, and she was a heck of a lot louder than he was!
So he set about calmly cooking the macaroni and said, “Let’s start this conversation all over again, shall we? Your friend Marcy thinks you’re going to the Christmas dance next week and that you’ll be wearing a great dress. The way I look at it, you need to get a dress so she won’t think you’re—”
“Yeah, okay,” said Gina, jumping at the chance to get out of trouble. “I was going to ask you for some money, Dad, but you’ve been so busy lately—”
“I’m never too busy to help you buy some clothes, Gina. Trouble is,” Joe said wryly, “I’m not going to be much help picking out a party dress. That’s when I thought of Mrs. Atkins. I bet she’d love the chance to help you find something nice.”
“Well...”
Joe heard a new note in Gina’s voice and looked at her sharply. “You are going to the dance, aren’t you?”
“Oh, sure,” Gina said quickly. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Joe suspected she wasn’t quite telling the truth again, so he shot a suspicious look at his daughter. Why in the world did she act this way? Wasn’t he giving her enough at
tention? Or maybe it was just the wrong kind of attention? Perhaps it was a case, as the school expert suggested, of Gina worrying that she was going to lose both parents. Not through death, necessarily; she might also fear losing him to another woman, to his work, to any number of possibilities. So she lied just to keep him hopping. And maybe she was lying again.
Gina wiped the guilty expression from her face at once. “Naturally, I’m going to the Tinsel Ball. I just...I haven’t had the time—”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s not a problem,” she said immediately. “Not exactly. I just haven’t found a date yet.”
“You haven’t—? How can you go to the dance if a boy hasn’t asked you yet?”
Gina looked scornful. “Oh, Dad! This isn’t the Dark Ages anymore! I’m going to ask a boy myself. I’m not going to wait around for some nerd to ask me when I could ask whoever I want in the first place. My piano teacher says it’s demeaning to women to—”
“Yeah, I heard that line before.” Joe growled, “Pretty soon Nora is going to start charging me for more than piano lessons. So if you’re going to ask somebody, why haven’t you done it yet?”
“I haven’t gotten around to it, that’s all!” Gina’s voice rose petulantly. “You’re not the only one who’s busy around here, y’know!”
“Okay, okay,” said Joe, placating his hot-tempered child before she really blew up. “I’ll leave that part up to you. But if you need money for a dress or anything else in that department, I’ll be happy to give you whatever you need—within reason.”
“What’s within reason?”
Joe hadn’t the faintest idea how much a dress was going to cost—fifty dollars, maybe? But somehow he knew it would be a tactical error to admit such a failing. He said, “I’ll think about it and get back to you. In the meantime, you can concentrate on finding a date.”
“I can manage that, I think.”
“Can you manage to fix us a salad, too?”
“Okay,” said Gina, hopping off her stool to help. She hugged Joe from behind first and said, “I love you, Daddy. You’re so understanding. You’re the best father in the whole world!”
Joe grinned. He was wrapped around his daughter’s little finger, and he knew it. He’d give Gina a hundred dollars for a dress. She deserved the best, after all.
She loosened her hug and said softly, “You know, if you wanted to see the television lady again, I guess I wouldn’t blame you.”
Joe laughed and turned around, cradling Gina in his arms. “What brought that on?”
She didn’t meet his gaze. “I dunno. You’re not a monk, I guess.”
“A monk? Who have you been talking to?” Joe demanded, amused. “Your piano teacher again?”
Gina shrugged. “Maybe. She says you’re an attractive man. She did, honest,” Gina repeated when Joe laughed in disbelief. “She says I can’t keep you all to myself much longer.”
“Gina...” Joe began, massaging her arms and wondering what in the hell he was supposed to say.
But Gina stepped away from him, shaking her head rapidly. “I know it’s true. You hate me sometimes—when I lie—and you want to have somebody nice around....”
“I never hate you, Gina.”
“But...” Gina stopped, her voice suddenly clogged with tears. “You need a woman around.”
Joe’s heart melted. But he couldn’t find the right words to ease his daughter’s pain. Clearly, she was threatened by the idea of another woman entering his life, but he couldn’t figure out how to explain that his feelings for Gina would never change. She was his daughter, for crying out loud! Nobody could ever change that bond.
“Listen,” he said, attempting to josh her out of her mood, “let me decide what I need around here, okay? Nobody knows better than I do, got that?”
She tried to smile. “Okay.”
“And the first thing I need is food,” Joe declared. “I’m starving. Let’s get dinner on the table, partner. Then we’ll talk more about this dress business, okay?”
Gina’s smile flickered at last. “Okay, Dad.”
He released her and went back to fixing dinner. He’d find a way to get Susannah Atkins out of his mind eventually. The last thing he wanted was to alienate Gina. If giving up women for the rest of his life was required, then so be it.
But, damn, Miss Suzie was going to be hard to forget.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE PARAMEDICS GAVE Rose a thorough examination. “We could take you to the emergency room, Mrs. Atkins, but I’m not picking up anything really terrible,” said the young woman with the stethoscope. “Your blood pressure’s a little high.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Rose insisted. “I was just a little dizzy. I feel fine now.”
“Well, you should see your doctor tomorrow,” the paramedic counseled. “Perhaps your granddaughter will take you.”
“Oh, no. Susannah’s going on vacation. I’ll ask a friend to go with me.”
“We’ll see,” Susannah said, then showed the kind paramedics to the door. When she returned to the parlor where Rose was reclining on the sofa, she said, “I think I’ll call your doctor immediately, Granny Rose. Are you still seeing Dr. Phelps?”
“Heavens, don’t bother him tonight.” Rose sat up briskly. “He’ll just tell me to come in in the morning.”
“All right, I’ll take you to see him first thing.”
“I won’t hear of you changing your plans for me, Suzie. I’m not feeble, you know!”
“But—”
“I don’t need a nursemaid. You should take your vacation. You need it.”
The argument went on for several minutes, and Susannah had never felt more helpless. How could she force a perfectly sane adult woman to see a doctor when she didn’t want to? Her attentions only upset Rose.
“Granny Rose, I wish you’d be sensible.”
“I’m perfectly sensible,” Rose snapped, putting an end to the discussion by getting up and preparing a delicious supper of homemade soup and whole wheat rolls that she popped out of the freezer and into her warming oven. The rolls were perfect with Susannah’s peach chutney, and Rose chattered at length about the soup recipe, one she felt Susannah could use in her TV program. Susannah was aware that her grandmother was trying to divert their attention from the problem at hand, but she allowed Rose to talk aimlessly about unimportant matters during the meal. Afterward, in the parlor, they enjoyed tea laced with brandy in front of a roaring fire. Talking local gossip, Susannah watched her grandmother’s every move and syllable for signs of illness, but Rose seemed healthy and happy.
Rose always went to bed before ten o’clock. Since Susannah could hear her grandmother cheerily humming Christmas carols in her room, she tiptoed downstairs to telephone Roger.
She got through to his answering machine.
“Roger,” she said to the recording, “I’ve run into a problem with my grandmother. I may have to postpone my flight. I’ll call you in the morning when I know what’s going on. I—I’m sorry about this.” She wished she could say more, but it was difficult speaking to a machine. She ended by saying softly, “I’ll be in touch. Good night.”
She hung up, wishing she could have talked with Roger personally. Although he wasn’t much of a listener where personal problems were concerned, he was a logical, unemotional thinker, which might be helpful. He could at least act as a sounding board for Susannah’s worries about Rose. She needed someone to share her feelings—someone who could help her decide how to help her grandmother without compromising Rose’s self-esteem and independence.
“How do I help Granny Rose without making her feel like she’s incapable of taking care of herself?”
A good answer didn’t occur to Susannah, so she went upstairs quietly and changed into her flannel nightgown. She left her bedroom door ajar in case her grandmother should cry out in the middle of the night, and climbed into bed. It was the same canopied princess bed where she’d slept during her
childhood. The same gauzy white curtains festooned the frilly white bed that resembled—in Susannah’s mind—the grand sleigh of a beautiful ice princess who drove a pair of milk-white ponies over the snowy land she lived in.
But the pleasant memories evoked by her bed didn’t make Susannah feel any better. She lay awake for a long time, wondering what she could do. So many of her friends had taken care of elderly parents, but Susannah had never imagined the day when Rose might be incapacitated in any way. Such a vital, fun-loving woman as Granny Rose didn’t deserve a slow, undignified slide into dependency.
Yet there was no stopping old age, Susannah knew. Eventually, Rose would need a great deal of care and the responsibility would be Susannah’s alone. Somehow, she had to find a way to help Rose without hurting her pride.
In a few hours, Susannah knew, she could be winging her way to a beautiful beach bathed by sea breezes. But only a completely selfish woman would abandon Rose when she was most in need. Susannah intended to telephone Roger in the morning to cancel their plans. She hoped he’d understand.
Perhaps she’d invite him to spend Christmas in Tyler. She had often contemplated a more serious relationship with her boss. Perhaps now was the time. Roger might enjoy the endless entertaining, the hours of puttering in the kitchen while neighbors popped in and out to sample Christmas cookies and lend a hand. Roger might actually have fun decorating the tree with the hundreds of antique ornaments Rose and Susannah had collected over the years. Gilded fruit, yards of shining ribbon, garlands of pine—Susannah loved draping the house in finery.
Perhaps Roger would, too.
But lying in bed, Susannah knew that Roger wouldn’t care for a Tyler Christmas in the least. He’d hate the pointless chatter, the foolishness of decorations that would have to be stripped down in January. He’d have a terrible time making small talk with the old ladies who’d come for eggnog. He’d find the church service boring and the family traditions charming but foolish.
Not that Roger didn’t have other good qualities, Susannah told herself hastily. He was a nice man, of course. He had a wonderful head for business and knew broadcasting inside out. He had been a big part of the team that made “Oh, Susannah!” a success.